


i were the heavens

by pprfaith



Category: Supernatural
Genre: All the usual SPN warnings aplly, Angels, Archangels, Christian Religion, Drabbles, Ficlets, Gen, Not Beta Read, Religious Imagery, angsty, collection, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pprfaith/pseuds/pprfaith
Summary: Angels, heaven and history in drabbles.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Repost. WTF, ff.net doens't allow imports, I hate everything.

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_The memory of wings never quite leaves him. Words: 230; Title: Do not stand at my grave…_

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**in circled flight**

.

The human body was never meant for flight. Whether you believe in God or Darwin, no humanoid has ever had the slightest potential for taking to the air and never coming back down.

Nick has never known true flight. He has never felt wind on his face, has never had it tear at his feathers in wild play. He has never felt the weightlessness of ten thousand miles of nothing beneath his soft, tender belly and wondered what it would be like to just… stop.

Nick has never plummeted, his wings burning as beacons of warning to all those who stood at the very edge of Heaven and watched his Fall.

Therefore, Nick’s body, this fragile, rotting vessel, has not the first idea about flight. 

And still, with every step he takes on his Father’s precious Earth, with every breath he takes to keep useless lungs working and give voice to his words, he feels it.

Countless eons since he Fell, and Lucifer still feels the memory of wings at his back, calling for flight, calling for him to shed all that he has become and dance across the cosmos once more. 

(upwards, the memory whispers, a rustle of feathers, a rushing of motion, upwards. Homewards.)

He kicks his vessels booted feet against the ground and rolls his shoulders, trying to dislodge the constant itch even though it never works.

.

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_Lucifer falls alone. Words: 290; Title: SPN 4x10._

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**ten thousand miles**

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Michael stands at the very edge of Heaven, the sun in his eyes and the armies of Heaven at his back, sword bare in his hand, armor bloody and heart heavy. He can feel the ardent heat of his Father’s anger burning above them, swooping in from above.

Two steps away from him, beyond the precipice, Sammael beats his wings, strong and hard, their brilliant white turned golden in the sunlight, stained red by blood. His sword is gone. He hangs there, alone against a legion, lost. 

The war is over.

Michael reaches out with his free hand, begs, “Repent, brother, repent.”

But the Morning Star, brightest of all angels, does not kneel before creatures of clay. Not for his Father. Not even for his brother. He shakes his head as the weight of God bears down on them and Michael raises his flaming sword, tears in his eyes.

Ready to do his Father’s will and cast his favorite brother from Paradise. 

But Sammael only smiles, brilliant and wild and beautiful and then he folds his wings with a snap.

And falls. 

Michael lunges forward, letting go of his weapon, a scream ripping from his throat. Sammael plummets toward the world he hates, plummets with his wings folded and his arms spread, laughing.

He jumped so Michael would not have to push him.

Father’s rage tapers off, becomes grief. The armies scatter to the winds, their purpose done. The war is over. The Morning Star is gone, his rebellion dead. 

Michael stays at the edge a long time after Heaven falls silent once more. He whispers into the coming night, “I should have fallen with you, brother.”

But he didn’t.

.

.

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_Castiel searches, ever faithful. AU. Words: 980;_

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**corners of the world**

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Castiel searches for his Father, ever faithful, ever hopeful, a small golden charm his only guiding light. He searches the Americas first, because they are closest and he does not feel comfortable leaving the Winchesters alone for too long.

He has not been entirely right since Raphael burned him up. He is alone in this body now, Jimmy gone, and he feels its emotions more keenly. He feels a … _pull_ towards the brothers, a desire to return to them at the end of each day of fruitless searching. He wonders what it means.

Sometimes, he obeys that strange pull.

.

After that, he goes to Europe, hoping to find Father in the old palaces and churches, places that have stood in His name for a thousand years and longer. He finds echoes sometimes, memories in the walls not of the Vatican, but a small chapel somewhere in the country side. 

God is not where humans believe Him to be.

Unfortunately, He is not where Castiel believes Him to be either.

.

Asia is the logical consequence of Europe and Castiel freezes in Moscow, snow battering at him in a gale that no human could survive. He is distracted by the howling of the wind, the sheer rage of the weather. 

Castiel has never felt cold before Jimmy left their shared body. Now it digs into his bones, drives hooks into his skin and it feels… curious. He stands in the middle of the blizzard, eyes closed, and experiences what it feels like to freeze to death.

The charm in his hand is as cold as the ice on his eyelashes.

.

Dean calls for him two months after Lucifer walked free and asks, “Found anything yet?”

Cas considers telling Dean that God is not _anything_ but _everything_. But the human’s faith is a peculiar, injured thing and he has learned that Dean uses words to hide behind, flippant and open when in truth, he hides underneath them, hidden as well as God himself.

“I am still hopeful,” he returns quietly, remembering Moscow and the cold, dead feel of metal in his hand.

“So nothing then,” Dean surmises and flops on the bed, sighing.

“I will return to searching,” Cas (because around Dean, he is always only Cas) states after a few minutes of silence. Apparently, Dean only wished to ask that one question.

“Good luck,” the man mutters, already half asleep. “And Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let the lions bite.”

It is only later, watching sleeping lions in the shade of a dying tree at the edge of the African desert, that Castiel wonders how Dean knew where he was headed.

.

Africa contains many deities, most of them of man’s making. Blood and sacrifice. Some try to eat him, many sadly shake their heads at his inquiries, telling him that haven’t seen the Creator either. A few, precious few, point spindly fingers this way or that, offering directions. 

Many of them Castiel has already found to be useless. He finishes his search of the continent, bows to Mother Africa, giving his thanks to the earth goddess for having her children help him so.

Her laughter rumbles under his feet, giving him the impression of a mother’s indulgent amusement.

.

The searches the ice worlds last, after Australia, which is devoid of most supernatural life. God is not sipping Mai Tais on a beach outside Sidney, no matter what Dean says.

Nor is He in the ice, hidden away in some cave. But Castiel takes a moment to stand in another storm and feel the cold, so different from the lazy heat of Africa and Australia. Heat makes this body (his body) feel sluggish and tired. The ice carves edges into him, makes him sharper.

He goes to Sam and Dean’s motel room to unthaw and tells them that he has failed in his task.

.

“What about this?” Sam asks one day, weeks after Cas has returned to them and given up his search. He holds out an article he printed off the internet and Cas skims it with tired eyes. 

That is a new thing, too. He gets tired now.

In Brasil, three children rose from the dead after a traffic accident that killed them. A miracle. 

“Maybe your God’s hanging out down South,” Sam supplies when Cas doesn’t seem to make the logical leap. He does not call Sam on the possessive pronoun he attaches to God. Sam’s faith is as peculiar as his brother’s.

“If this is indeed a miracle, it was probably wrought by one of my…” he wants to say siblings, but they are that no longer. Sam understands him nonetheless and lays a big hand on his shoulder.

“Cas,” he says, “It’s the middle of the apocalypse. The angels probably have something better to do. It’s worth checking out.”

So does God. In theory. _But, whatever_ , Dean would say. 

“You should go,” the younger brother tells him.

In Sam-speak that means, _don’t give up._

.

God is not in Brasil slurping Mai Tais either. Dean is wrong and so is Sam, but Castiel does not mind. If God is on Earth (and Castiel is sure He is, because He is not in Heaven and certainly not in Hell) then He is not stationary. 

Castiel must have faith and he must keep searching. Sam keeps him supplied with accounts of miracles after Castiel asks him to.

He will find his Father.

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(“So,” Sam asks, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, “Think he’s gonna figure it out?”

Dean shrugs and lies beside his brother. Their sides brush for a moment and two hundred miles away, the charm in Castiel’s pocket briefly warms.)

.

Sometimes Castiel wonders why he feels such a pull towards the brothers. 

But he never wonders enough.

.

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_Where do angels go when they die? Words: 380; Title: Bush_

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**into the arms**

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„Cas?“

„Yes, Dean?“

„Where do angels go when they die?“

“I beg your pardon?”

“Angels. When you guys get ganked, where do you go? Back t’Heaven?”

“No. If we are killed with an angel’s blade, we simply cease to exist.”

“No grand afterlife for you then?”

“No. Why do you wish to know?”

“Just wonderin’. Nevermind.”

“…”

“Sorry I asked. Not my place and all tha’.”

“It is alright.”

“Are you scared?”

“Of what?”

“Dyin’, Cas.”

Castiel turns to face Dean sitting on the hood of the Impala, looking golden bright in the sunlight, freckles and green eyes. In the daylight, Dean looks uncannily alive for a broken man. Castiel tilts his head slightly, questioning. Dean has long ago learned to interpret this tiny gesture and Castiel never stops to consider what that means. But this time, Dean doesn’t see or doesn’t want to see.

So Castiel speaks. “Why do you ask that?”

“Just…,” the human wipes at his nose with thumb and forefinger, rubs his palm over his mouth and chin. “Nevermind.”

“You are afraid of dying,” Castiel tries.

Dean laughs humorlessly. “Terrified.”

“You will not go back to Hell when you die. You know that.”

“So I’m going to a better place, huh?” There is no humor in his voice, no relief.

Castiel nods. “Yes.”

“Can angels feel fear, Cas? At all, I mean?”

The conversation is confusing and Castiel is not sure how to answer. Sometimes humans ask a question but the obvious answer is not the right one and Castiel doesn’t always understand that, understand those nuances and degrees of truth, or lie. All carefully wrapped inside each other. 

Too much truth scares humans. Too little makes them angry. Dean is simpler than most humans in that regard, preferring hard truths over lies, but even after all he’s seen and done, he is still only that. Human.

Castiel is not but he chooses lie, this time. “No.”

Dean’s smile tilts and bends, crooked and dim even in the sunlight. Weak. That means Castiel should have told the truth. He is terrified of no longer existing.

He never was before he met Dean and Sam but he is now. That makes him more human and that, in turn, terrifies him, too. 

.

 

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_She is not his. Words: 850; Title: Plato_

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**ten thousand eyes**

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She is not his. 

Here now, in 1978, he lays eyes on her golden form, her tearstained face, her wide, open eyes and he knows that she is not his. He knows that she is more than twenty years dead.

But she shines so brightly.

.

He can feel a part of himself, his true vessel, growing inside of her, infusing her with a light no mortal should have. He has met other bearers before, women carrying those with a drop of angel inside of them, and they were all eclipsed by the light nesting in their wombs.

Not her. 

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She will carry Sammael’s vessel, too. Thus it is written and thus it shall be, above and below. Lucifer’s starlight will settle in her, a few short years from now. 

Heaven and Hell both live inside of her, literally. He can feel this time’s version of himself rouse and peek across eternity, wondering what has drawn his attention. _Our shell_ , he tells himself, _our brother’s shell._

And his other version asks, _Where will she go then?_

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She dies for her son and that is good.

But she dies in the fires of Hell brought to Earth and that is bad. 

She dies as a sacrifice, but as one for the Light Bringer.

Her soul hangs in the balance, stuck in-between. She made a deal, but she made it out of love and so she stays where she burned, in a mortal place called Lawrence. Michael, the version of him belonging in that time, visits her once.

He craves to see her golden glow again after that brief peek, a decade earlier. He stands in front of the house in the dark and watches her, a white and yellow ghost, invisible to the human eye. She wanders room after room, keeping the night at bay. Protecting. 

The human capability for love and sacrifice stuns him time and again.

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He is wearing her husband’s face and she comes running toward him as soon as she wakes, scared, so scared. The future vessels have laid their lives out for her. They have asked never to be born.

Michael understands that this causes her great distress and before he knows it, he finds himself using his vessel’s arms to hold her close. He closes his human eyes, buries his face in her hair and listens to the heartbeat growing inside of her.

Never to be born. 

Does his vessel despise him so much? He is only doing his duty. 

That is a kind of sacrifice, too.

.

They walk out of the old house together and he draws on John Winchester to say the right things and make the right moves.

Why he does this he does not know. He should simply erase her memory and return her to her home. There is no need to get there by mortal vehicle, to pretend. To even stay in this shell.

But she shines so brightly.

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At home, she insists on taking a shower. He leans against the doorframe and watches her shake and sob and curse under the water. He lets her.

When the water turns off and she steps out of the shower stall, he can just make out the tiny bump that will be a beautiful, stubborn, broken man one day, who refuses him at every turn. It does not make him angry.

She stops dead as soon as she sees him, scared or surprised by his presence. He does not much care. He simply steps up to her, lays his hands on her naked shoulders and kisses her, once, lightly.

Just to taste the light of her soul. Just to breathe into her and make her a better bearer for this child and the one yet to come. Just for that. 

Then he taps her temple with two of John’s fingers and catches her as she falls, lowers her down and leaves the vessel.

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Mary Winchester burns for the last time in early 2006, setting herself on fire to save the men that will tear the world asunder, her sons. 

Michael waits for her at the gates of the afterlife and directs her Upward. When the hounds come to collect on a deal she made more than thirty years ago, he simply burns them to ash. At the Door to Eden he takes her hand and says, “Your sons have a great duty.”

She nods, wipes at a tear. She feels sorrow for them, and love. Only that. 

He knows that she can be useful. If he takes her, he can make Dean bend to his will. If he takes her, he can make Samuel turn from his path. If he takes her, he controls the two most powerful humans since Cain and Abel.

He hides her instead, in a part of Eden that none but him have walked in all of Creation. He hides her and when Zachariah comes stomping through Heaven looking for something to use against the vessels, Michael sends him away.

“Thank you,” she says. 

Her smile is bright.

.


End file.
